The King's Labyrinth
by garrusvakarians
Summary: When Dean's brother is kidnapped by the Demon King Castiel, Dean must battle through his Labyrinth and kill him before he and his brother are trapped there forever. Little does Dean know, however, that he has been chosen for this since the dawn of time, and there's more than just one reason why Castiel wants so desperately for him to fail. [Dean/Cas, with other pairings]
1. Author's Notes

Hey guys,

Considering these are both two of my favourite things in the world, writing a Supernatural/Labyrinth crossover just made a whole bunch of sense to me. This is actually the first fic I've ever published on here, so reviews/follows/favourites etc. would be really, absolutely, unbelievably appreciated. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.

This fic is rated M for its strong violence, strong language, horror themes and sex.

I apologise in advance for any grammatical errors. I always proofread and edit like a crazy person, but slip-ups can happen.


	2. Prologue

The King's Labyrinth

_Prologue_

A Tale of Two Brothers

_Once upon a time, there lived two brothers. _

_These two brothers were princes of another world, and they had a powerful destiny that would one day be fulfilled—although they did not know this. _

_The first brother: brave, righteous and good, was often left to care for his younger brother, a brother that was sly, damned and evil. _

_The two brothers loved one another deeply, but it was engraved in their souls that once they learnt of their true identity, the second brother would betray the first._

_And so, both brothers would travel to the land that was their true home, and a brutal war would begin._

_The first brother—the Righteous Prince—would fight for his people, who were being held prisoner by the current King of the land, and the second brother—the Damned Prince—would fight for his place on the throne, where he would rule over his people, like the vicious king before that, with a cruelty so merciless that it would have the power to kill the plants that grew, and block out the light of the sun._

_In this Land of Lost Souls, the Damned Prince had always proved victorious, and the world had turned desolate and wild. Souls that still believed in the Righteous Prince were beginning to lose hope that they would ever be freed from their prison, and when Souls lost hope, they would allow the wild and desolate land to change them into corrupt and vicious creatures— Demons—mindless slaves of the King, and damned to remain in their prison forever. _

_This was a cycle that had been going on for longer than anyone could even comprehend; two brothers of the mortal world were chosen to fight for their land, and the King of Demons would wait patiently for the next War to begin._

_Two brothers._

_Good and Evil._

_The Righteous and the Damned._

* * *

The little boy played with the amulet around his neck, and looked up at the woman who lay on the bed with him.

"Will those people ever be freed, Mommy?" Dean asked, taking the thumb out of his mouth and snuggling up to his mother after she'd finished telling him the Tale of the Two Brothers that he always asked for when he couldn't sleep.

"Perhaps, little one," she said, holding him close. "But only if the Good Prince wins."

Dean frowned.

"What happens to the prince that doesn't win?"

Mary breathed out slowly.

"He would…"

She faltered, thinking. She did not quite know what to say.

"I'm not sure," she said finally—and it was the truth.

Dean seemed more confident.

"Would he die?"

The question made Mary hesitate. He had asked her so easily, so definitely. Death did not scare Dean like she thought it would.

Mary said the only thing she could think of.

"I don't know."

Dean was not satisfied by this answer. He fidgeted in her arms, still with his hands enveloped around the amulet he wore on his neck. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"Did the brothers not love each other?" he asked.

Mary shook her head quickly.

"Oh, no, my darling, the brothers loved one another very much."

Dean was perplexed.

"But, Mommy, if they did, then why did they fight?"

Mary sighed, searching for an answer.

"I guess, little one, because it was in their destiny."

"What is destiny?"

"You can't see, or touch it," the young woman began, stroking Dean's hair, "but that doesn't mean it isn't there. Destiny guides us through our entire lives.

For instance, it was in my destiny to have you, little one."

The boy contemplated, trying to weigh the meaning of his mother's answer. He tried to understand, at first, but then, something in him didn't want to. He scowled.

"I don't care about destiny," he decided stubbornly. "If I had a baby brother, we'd never fight, not ever."

Mary smiled at her son. "You're a sweet boy," she said. And he was.

"Am I a prince, Mommy?" Dean asked, now looking up at her with his big green eyes.

"Of course you are," Mary said, hugging him, although her voice seemed sad now. Knowing. "You should go to sleep, little prince; I'll see you in the morning."

Dean smiled at his mother and turned over in his bed. Mary kissed his forehead and tucked him in.

By the time she had gotten up to turn his light off, Dean was already fast asleep.

Mary looked over at her sleeping child for a moment longer—wearing that same, sad look on her face.

"Goodnight, Dean," she whispered, and closed the door.


	3. 1 - Rude Awakenings

The King's Labyrinth

_Chapter 1_

Rude Awakenings 

The jet black Chevrolet Impala had been parked on the hill on the outskirts of town for almost four hours. It was Dean's favourite place; a hot spot for teens to drive up to at night to party and fuck, but during the day, it was quiet. Dean thought it was the most peaceful place in the world. He didn't notice the empty beer cans or used condoms scattered across the mossy ground; he only saw the deluge of trees surrounding the area, keeping it hidden from prying eyes, and the unbounded view of the city that he had grown up in, that went on for miles and miles and miles and didn't stop. It was so vast, that Dean couldn't help but wander if, when he would watch the sun go down around him, and that ignited orange light set behind the earth all those miles away; that he was staring at the end of the world.

God, Dean couldn't wait to get out of that town.

He thought about it every day. Packing a small bag with a few clothes and wads of cash, storing cans of beans and an apple or two—whatever he could get his hands on, and then getting into his car, blasting his Metallica cassette and not looking back as he drove towards that sunset, finally allowing himself to see what the end of the world looked like. Maybe he would say goodbye to Sam, but probably not. Maybe he would punch his father, or twice, or three times… or maybe he would go the whole way and stab him in the heart.

Dean hated his father. He hated him with every fibre of his being, and John loathed and despised him just as equally. Dean hated his entire family, and as soon as he turned eighteen, which was five months away, he was out of there.

Things hadn't always been like this. There had been a time when Dean was the most popular guy in school, where he was happy, funny, flirty and kind, and everybody loved him. There had been a time when he and his father would drink beer together on the bonnet of the Impala outside their home, and tell each other stories and laugh until they cried. And Dean's mother would walk out, bleary eyed, telling them that it was two o'clock in the morning, and would they _please_, for the love of God, go to bed. John would kiss her, which made Dean groan and cover his eyes in embarrassment, and then, without them realising it, Mary would have gotten herself a beer as well, and the three of them would have stayed up all night talking and laughing and not having a care in the world.

Those days were long gone, now. They were nothing more than memories. And Mary was nothing more than a ghost.

She had been dead for half a year, now, although the fire that killed her still felt like yesterday.

Sammy had only been six months old, and was sleeping soundly in his cot which resided in the nursery overlooking the garden. He was a beautiful baby, with his tufts of brown hair enveloping his rosy, chubby face. He also had Mary's glimmering green eyes. Once upon a time Dean had liked that about Sammy, but now he shuddered to look at him. It was too much of a reminder that his mother was dead, and it was all Dean's fault.

John had been out that night, drinking and playing pool with his hunting buddies. Mary was at home with the boys, relaxing in her bed with a much deserved glass of wine and a good book. It was eleven o'clock, and Dean was preparing to sneak out through his bedroom window and make the short bike ride to his girlfriend Lisa's house. Well, _girlfriend_ was pushing it a bit. They went to school together, and Dean had been sleeping with her for almost four months now, but that was hardly what he would call a relationship.

Although, Dean preferred it that way. He had tried the whole 'committed boyfriend' thing in the past, but to no avail. Dean didn't like "feelings", or heart-to-hearts, or dinners with the parents; he liked making out in empty bathroom stalls, fucking in the backseat of the beloved Impala his dad had handed down to him on his fifteenth birthday, and, in Lisa's case, sneaking through her bedroom window on a Friday night while her parents slept soundly across the hall. Dean liked Lisa. She was smart, and funny, and beautiful as hell. She was a great lay and was friendly and attentive enough without smothering him or getting on his nerves. Yeah, Lisa was sweet—although not sweet enough to make Dean reconsider his current lifestyle and start calling himself a one-woman guy.

As Dean put on his sneakers and opened up his bedroom window; relishing the warm summer air as it seeped through the gap and left a soft, soothing sensation on his skin, he thought to himself that life was good. He was going to graduate high school in a year and be free to do as he pleased. A lot of Dean's friends were going off to college, but the only thing Dean wanted to do was stay where he was and work with his dad at the garage. He couldn't believe his luck, being able to work with his dad every day, and then coming home to his mom and the baby brother he adored, maybe even going off to pick Lisa up and take her to the hill to see the sun set as he held her hand.

Yes, life was good, he thought, as he perched on the window ledge, preparing to climb down using the vines that grew, weed-like, on the sides of the house.

Dean put a hand on the vine, and then, without knowing why, he froze.

Stop.

His body was suddenly tense and rigid, and he was alert—perhaps waiting for something. There was silence for a few moments, until there wasn't. He heard someone scream his name.

"_Dean!_"

It was his mother.

Mary had said his name a thousand times before, but this time was different. He had never heard her sound so panicked and hysterical before. Something was dreadfully wrong, he knew that for certain.

"Mom?" he called, pulling himself back through the window and into his room. That was when he noticed it—the smell.

Dean instinctively ran for the door, and yelped at the touch. The doorknob was red hot, and Dean threw his hand back instantly and cradled it.

Swallowing back the pain, Dean grabbed a small towel that was hanging off the end of his bed, and covered his hand with it as he opened the door.

For a moment he saw nothing. There was no colour, only grey, and it was thick and it stung his eyes and made them water. The grey thickness entered his lungs and at once Dean felt as if he was choking. He coughed loudly and coarsely into the towel, and did not dare remove it when he had recovered. Before he had a chance to think what his next move was, he suddenly felt the right side of his body get warmer, and heard a sound that was hard to describe; like the violent crinkling of paper in a thousand brutish hands. Dean did not need to look to know that his house was on fire.

The far end of the hall was emblazoned in orange. Dean was transfixed to where he stood. For a moment, Dean felt like he had finally reached the end of the world, and was only metres away from the setting sun that he had watched every day for two years on the top of that hill. And yet, this sun wasn't setting, if anything, it was rising; engulfing everything around it in a blinding wave of colour and heat; angry, violent and hungry.

This was nothing like the sun he was used to. Where was the peace? The tranquility? The still, contented moment of watching a day end, and knowing that it would appear tomorrow, lighting up the sky and reminding you that yesterday was in the past?

And then Dean remembered that he wasn't watching the sun from his car on the hill; he was watching a fire burning down his home.

Dean sprang into action. Sam and his parent's rooms were right down that hallway, where the fire was approaching fast. Mary had only called his name a few moments ago, but where was she? And where was Sammy?

"Mom?" Dean called again, although his voice was muffled by the towel.

Suddenly, a section of the roof ahead of him caved in and fell, engulfing the mid-section of the staircase. Well, escaping downstairs wasn't an option anymore, but Dean cared little about that at the moment; he needed to get to his family.

"_Mom?_" Dean called out a third time, removing the towel from his face and letting his voice surge over the sound of blazing fire.

"Dean!" he heard a muffled voice say ahead of him. Mary was behind one of the two doors, and so was his little brother.

Looking ahead of him, Dean noticed that the fire was still quite high, so, getting down on his hands and knees, he crawled, one-handed, to the far end of the hallway.

_You're meeting the sun_, he found himself thinking.

The heat was unbearable, and he could barely see anything through the smoke. Even with the towel covering his nose and mouth, Dean's chest still felt tight and blocked, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

"Where are you?" Dean shouted, although his voice was hoarse.

"We're in the nursery!" he heard his mother say from behind the door. "We're locked in, I don't know how!"

Sam's nursery didn't have a lock, but Dean didn't have time to question it.

"Stand back!" he shouted, getting to his feet. "I'm going to kick the door down!"

Mary took Sam to the far end of the room, and told Dean that it was clear.

Dean felt the tickle of a flame on his back. The pain was nothing like he had quite experienced before. The quick, sharp heat felt like electricity somehow, like freezing cold water dripping from the ceiling and staining through his clothes. Dean braced himself, and went in for a kick. The force almost made him fall backwards, but he steadied himself. The sound of Sammy crying from behind the door, and the electric, ice-cold heat that was emanating from his back only intensified his determination to get through. He tried for a second kick. It did not open, but he saw the wood begin to crack. The moment the fire had begun to engulf the nursery door, Dean went in for a third, final kick, and the door swung open.

He saw his mother, beautiful, scared and fragile, clutching on to his baby brother as he wailed in fear and confusion. He rushed over to them.

"Are you okay?" he asked urgently. "We need to get out of here."

Mary seemed not to have heard him, and instead only looked at him with the eyes of a woman who had lost all hope.

"It's happening," she whispered, tears rolling down her smooth, pale cheeks. "Like he said it would."

"Like who said?" Dean asked, wide-eyed and frantic.

For a moment Mary seemed lost in his eyes, looking at him as if for the first time. Or perhaps she was looking at him like that because she knew she would never get the chance to again.

"Mom," Dean said, grabbing her shoulders and breaking her out of her trance. "We need to go. Now."

Mary blinked, then nodded—suddenly alert.

"Take Sam," she said, giving the wailing baby to Dean. "Climb out of this window, and don't stop till you've reached the bottom."

Mary had stopped crying. Her voice was authoritative and calm, as if she were disciplining a small child.

"Use the vines to help you get down," she continued, urging Dean towards the window. "I know it'll be hard, using only one arm, but God knows you've had enough practice sneaking out of that room of yours every weekend."

If the circumstances hadn't been so dire, Dean may have laughed.

"You go first, Mom," Dean said, but Mary shook her head rapidly.

"No, you children are the most important thing. Do it now, Dean!"

Dean clenched his teeth. He felt vulnerable, like he was a little boy again. "I can't leave you here, Mommy."

His words may have softened her in any other situation, but in this one, Mary had made up her mind.

"Go now. That's an order, Dean."

Mary reminded Dean of his father in that moment. It was an odd thing for his mother to say, but Dean understood that Mary wasn't playing around. He had to obey her.

Dean breathed in gravely, and clutched Sam close to him and perched on the side of the window ledge. With his left hand occupied, Dean swung his right to the vines and grabbed tightly. His mom was right; this was going to be hard.

Bracing himself for the unknown, Dean kicked off the ledge, and caught the wall with his feet so he wouldn't crush Sammy through the force. Holding Sam tightly against his chest, Dean managed to use both hands to grab the vines, and lower both of them to the ground. Amidst the sound of falling rooftop and the roar of the flames, Dean heard his mother shouting from above.

"Promise me you'll always keep your brother safe! Promise me you'll love him and protect him. Don't let this day change who you are, Dean!" Mary stopped talking as she began to cough violently from the fumes.

"You can do it, Dean!" she began to shout once more, although she sounded quieter, weaker. "You're chosen, you and Sammy! He told me that you'd—"

But Mary was never able to finish what she was trying to tell Dean, for at that moment, an explosion erupted inside the house, and as Dean's feet hit the ground, with a still crying Sam in his arms, he saw the rooftop of his beautiful home crumble, and collapse.

"_Mom!_" he screamed, but he knew she could not hear him, not anymore.

* * *

Her body was still and lifeless under the ruin of brick and debris; her mouth slightly open, as if she was still trying to warn Dean of the horrors that would soon be upon him and his brother, even though she had no voice.

The beating of her heart began to lull into silence, although the cries of her children echoed far louder than the roar of the flames, or the wail of distant sirens.

As her eyes finally dimmed, she saw him, stood at the far side of the room. It had been years since she had last seen his face, but she recognised him instantly.

He walked over to her, and bent beside her broken form. He put a finger to her face, and brushed away a lock of her hair.

"Thank you, Mary," the man said, smiling kindly at her. "You've fulfilled your destiny."

She tried to speak, if only to ask him one thing, but her throat was filled with blood.

The man carried on stroking Mary's face; long after her eyes had closed and she had let out her final breath, and Sam's nursery had been totally engulfed by the flames. He caressed her cheek for a long while, all with that same, kind smile on his face—unfaltering, genuine, and content.

Dean did not realise he had been crying until he felt the tears land on his hand, and soak the photograph he had been holding.

He had not shed a tear for his mother since the night she had died. It wasn't that he didn't miss her, because he missed her every single day of his goddamned life. It was because he felt that he did not deserve to cry for Mary. _He_ was the reason that she was dead, after all. He had climbed down from that window first, and left her in that nursery to be killed.

A guilty man is not allowed to cry.

His father's voice rang inside his head, like an echo, or a broken record. That's what his father had said to him on the day of Mary's funeral.

John had not uttered a word to Dean since the fire, and then, at her funeral, as they stood side by side, father and son, and Dean had felt his chest tighten, and his eyes begin to blur, John had looked at him with eyes so cold they almost saw right through him, and had told him that guilty men were not allowed to cry, and Dean was the guiltiest man of all.

John blamed Dean for Mary's death, and so did he.

The fire department had told them that the fire had been caused by a small electrical explosion; completely accidental. Accidental didn't matter. Dean had had a chance to save his mother, and he hadn't taken it.

Dean wiped the tears away from the photograph he had been holding. It had only been taken a few weeks before the fire, and it was a horrible reminder of a life Dean would never have again.

His mother, beautiful and happy, sat on the bonnet of the Impala, with baby Sammy on her lap, smiling and waving. And then there was Dean, sat to their right, holding Sam's hand and grinning at the camera.

Dean turned the photograph around. On the back, Mary had written a message:

_Two Brothers; Two Princes. _

Mary had always called Dean and Sam princes. John had teased her for it, but she had never let that phase her.

Dean remembered the story Mary used to tell him when he was growing up, about two brothers who were princes, but belonged to a different world, and although they loved each other, one was meant to betray the other, and they would have to fight each other for the land to which they truly belonged.

Dean had loved hearing it when he was a child, despite how dark and twisted it really was. Two brothers loving each other, and then stabbing each other in the back? All to fight for some mystical fucking land that meant nothing to them anyway? How could he have enjoyed that shit when he was younger?

A lot had changed since then. He wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man, almost; a sad, lonely man who had murdered his mother and gotten away with it.

He stared at Sam, laughing at the camera; innocent, and without a care in the world.

Dean _hated_ him for it.

His eyes began to tear up once more, and he gritted his teeth in anger.

"If it wasn't for you," he said, glaring at the child. "Mom would have gotten out first, she'd have been safe, and I would have been the one left inside."

He crumpled the photograph in his hands, and threw it to the ground.

"If you hadn't been born, my mother would still be alive."

The sun was setting in the North, but this time it did not give Dean peace. All it did was remind him of the fire.

Dean looked away, feeling as if he might choke. To his right, a snowy-white barn owl was watching him from a branch. It stood out proudly against the darkened bark and leaves, and usually Dean might have found it beautiful, but not today.

"The fuck you lookin' at?" he said, harshly. The owl remained still, but kept its startlingly blue eyes on him.

"The fuck you lookin' at, huh?" Dean said again, louder. Again, the owl just stared. It was unnerving.

Dean sighed, and rubbed his eyes. The coldness of his watch against his cheek made him blink abruptly. Half-heartedly he checked the time: five minutes to seven.

"_Shit!_" rasped Dean, remembering, rummaging for his car keys and placing them in the ignition.

He had promised to babysit Sam at seven o'clock for when John went out drinking. There was no way he was going to get home in time, and he could sure as hell bet that his father wouldn't be pleased with him for being late.

As the Chevrolet Impala disappeared down the mossy hill, past the dozens of trees and back into town, the white barn owl watched it until it had completely disappeared from view.

After a few moments, it flew away.


	4. 2 - Bedtime Stories

The King's Labyrinth

_Chapter 2_

Bedtime Stories

It was ten minutes to eight when the Impala finally pulled up outside Dean's home.

_Home_. What a ridiculously innapropriate word to describe the shithole Dean's family had been living in for the past six months. This wasn't a home, this was a prison. Dean's real home was nothing more than a ruin, now.

When the flames had finally died down, Mary had been barely more than a sprinkle of ashes in the wind, and their once beautiful house now completely decimated by the fire. They could have rebuilt it, if they had really wanted to, but no one could bear the thought of living in a house that inhabited Mary Winchester's ghost. If they had stayed where they were, the memory of that fateful night would have teared their souls apart, and left them nothing more than cold and empty shells of guilt—haunted by familiar faces and the cruelness of forsaken dreams.

However, moving to the rickety old house on the side of town, with the rusted swing set and dead plants, hadn't done much good in helping Dean and his family escape their torment and move on with their lives. John had begun numbing his pain with alcohol, and, when that wasn't enough, taking that pain out on Dean. Many of the bruises had faded, but Dean still felt them. It didn't matter that they were gone—the imprints of black and blue and purple had been stained on his soul forever.

Sometimes Dean liked the pain, though. It reminded him that he was alive, and was paying for the murder of his mother with his own blood.

As Dean got out of the car, he saw the front door open, and John, whiskey bottle in hand, stumbled outside to meet him. He looked angry.

"The fuck you been, boy?" He shouted, although there was no one to hear him except for Dean. On the drive home it had begun to rain—now it was pouring. His jeans clung to his skin and water poured down his face in desperate seeps, like tears. Though Dean had already vowed on the way back never to cry again.

"Out," came Dean's response. His voice was sullen; almost bored sounding—as if he wasn't afraid of his father's scowl. John terrified him when he got drunk at home, and tonight was no exception.

"You promised me you were gonna' be back for seven to look after your brother!" scolded his father, waving his bottle in frustration, and spilling some onto the ground.

Dean wanted to look away, but he vowed not to be stared down by John's drunken glare. He would not look away. Ever. He was going to stand his ground until the day John finally lost it and cracked a bottle over his head. It wouldn't be the freedom Dean had been planning for, but it was a freedom nonetheless; one where her could be with his mother again.

"I lost track of time," he told his father. "But, I'm here now. You go out. Want me to call you a cab?"

"Why the fuck would I need a cab?" questioned John, accusingly.

"You can't honestly expect to be able to drive like that."

"Like _what_?"

John was worse than usual. As he pointed a craw-like finger at Dean, and brought himself closer, so their faces were almost touching, Dean could smell the alcohol on John's breath. It made him feel ill.

"Where's Sam?" asked Dean, changing the subject, although he was speaking through gritted teeth.

"In his crib," came John's condescending reply. "You think I'm incapable of putting a kid to bed?"

"I didn't say that," replied Dean. Their faces were still eerily close.

"You think I'm a bad father, boy?"

"I don't know," said Dean, "would you consider getting blind drunk while an infant relies on you to be kept alive count as being a bad father?"

It was a bold move on Dean's part, talking back to his father like that when John was already in such a state. He'd done it before, and the scars he'd acquired over the past months had acted as a reminder of all the reasons why it was a bad idea.

Dean was sure that John was going to hit him, but his father's hands remained by his sides.

"At least I never killed nobody," was all John said—but it was enough.

Dean felt his fists clenching, and his self-control begin to waver. This was it, he thought, he was going to fucking lose it.

And then, his thoughts were distracted by the sound of a distant car engine. Looking over his father's shoulder, he recognised the approaching vehicle.

Getting out of the car was John's old friend and drinking partner, Caleb. He waved at Dean, although his eyes were knitted together in concern. It was common knowledge that since Mary's death the relationship between John and Dean Winchester had been less than peachy.

John turned around.

"Evenin' there, Caleb," he said.

"Evening," nodded Caleb. "Everything okay?"

"Just swell, thanks for asking. You ready to go?"

Caleb nodded, though the worried look on his face did not waver. John gave Dean one final look of disgust before turning around and walking towards his friend's car.

"Bye, Dean," called Caleb, "I'll make sure your pop comes back in one piece."

Dean smiled through gritted teeth. "Don't try too hard," he said under his breath.

As the car drove away, Dean ran into the house to escape the rain.

Dean stomped upstairs and slammed his bedroom door shut, not even bothering to kick off his muddy boots to lay on the bed. He wiped his tired eyes and sighed slowly.

He had almost done it—hurt his father in a way that there was no coming back from. Could he have killed John if it had really come down to it? Could he have acted as God and decided the fate of another person? Then he realised—he'd already done that six months ago.

A murderer was still a murderer, whether he killed one person or a thousand.

Dean thought about Sam.

This was his routine now. Babysitting his brother almost four times a week while his dad drowned his sorrows at the local bar. Sam had been a good baby until Mary's death. Now he cried all the time.

Dean thought about Lisa. He hadn't spoken to her in weeks. In fact, he barely spoke to any of his friends anymore. Dean had been cutting class an awful lot these past few months. His school had tried to get in touch with John, to tell him that if Dean skipped any more classes, he was going to be kicked out for good. John was always too boozed up to give a shit, though, and Dean liked it that way. School, friends, Lisa… they didn't matter to him anymore. They could not fill the hole in his heart, and the emptiness in his soul. Dean could not feel anything anymore, nothing except for anger, and hate.

Listlessly, Dean brought a hand to his bedside table. He was looking for the amulet he had had since he was little.

The amulet was nothing special, just a cheap, bronze-coloured thing that resembled a head with bull-like horns. It had been the only possession of Dean's to have survived the fire. He would never admit it, but the amulet was a great comfort to him when John's drinking got too much to bear.

Rummaging through the belongings that resided on the table, Dean could not feel the amulet under his grasp. Opening his eyes, Dean peered over—to find that it wasn't there.

The amulet was _always_ there. Unless it was around his neck, Dean would, without fail, place it on his bedside table where it would wait patiently to be worn again.

Then Dean remembered. Sam liked the amulet too.

"That little…" Dean rasped under his breath, getting up off his bed and storming out of his room.

Opening the door of Sam's nursery, a shadow of the nursery they had had in their old house, Dean saw his brother clutching onto the amulet with an almost fierce protectiveness, sleeping soundly in his cot.

"Goddammit, Sam!" Dean said, walking over to him and grabbing the amulet from Sammy's hand. "What have I told you about stealing my stuff?"

At once, Sam awoke, and began to bawl.

"Shut up," snapped Dean, placing the amulet around his neck; absent-mindedly fingering the bronze head and relishing the coldness it left against his fingertips.

Sam had stood up, and was now shaking at the bars of the crib.

"Shut up, would you?"

The rain had gotten worse, and was now thrashing violently against the nursery window. A flash of lightening lit up the room, and Sam's wailings prevailed.

"God," whispered Dean, closing his eyes amidst the chaos. "Somebody take me away from this place."

His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening strike of thunder. Sam recoiled and sobbed for the attention of his older brother.

"What the hell do you want, huh?" glared Dean. "One of Mom's stories?"

Sam looked up at Dean, and whimpered.

"Okay," the older boy said, sitting on the edge of the spare bed. "If that'll shut you up.

Once upon a time…" he began, and although the words were sincere, his voice was addled with resentment and malice. "there lived two brothers."

Dean stood up from the bed, and walked slowly towards the dirtied mirror that hung from the far wall.

"The first brother; brave, righteous and good… with chiselled, handsome features and a talent with the ladies, although he would never admit it," smirked Dean, looking at himself admirably in the mirror, "was often left to care for his younger brother; a brother that was sly, damned and evil." With that, he looked at Sam through the mirror, and glared at him through cold, unforgiving eyes.

Dean turned, and began walking back towards the crib.

"The first brother loved his younger one dearly, but was treated so harshly by him and his father, that he was practically a slave."

Sam began to cry again, but Dean ignored it.

"The King of the Demons had watched the two brothers closely for many years, and amidst his ruling, and killing, and fucking, he had grown to pity the first brother, and had given him certain powers."

Dean smirked as his brother whined from behind the cot, clutching onto the bars with his chubby hands, and snivelling with discomfort and fear.

"So one night," continued Dean, "when the second brother had been particularly cruel to him, he called on the demons for help."

_Underneath the earth, or perhaps above it, or on its side, two demons held their heads against a wall, giggling together madly as they listened to a boy fulfil a prophecy that had been written so many eons ago, people had almost thought it would never happen._

"_Shut your hole!" the first demon barked, grabbing the other by its matted hair. "Listen!"_

"'Say your right words," the demons said," mimicked Dean callously, "'and we'll take your brother to the castle, and you will be free!

But the boy knew that the Demon King would keep his brother in his castle forever and ever and ever, and turn him into a demon. And so the righteous boy suffered in silence, until one day, when he was tired from a day of beatings from his father, and was hurt by the harsh orders of his younger brother, that he could no longer stand it…"

Sam was shaking wildly at the crib bars, and crying so loudly that he almost drowned out the sound of the pouring rain that was stabbing relentlessly against the windowpane. Dare he admit it, but Dean was actually enjoying himself. Mary had only told him that story once, long ago, when the thunder was just as fierce, and the rain just as wild, and her eyes seemed wide and unfocused, as if somebody else was speaking through her.

Dean sighed. Maybe he'd had enough fun for one night. He'd succeeded in terrorising a baby during a thunderstorm, and perhaps now it was time to stop before he scarred his baby brother for life. Although the thought was tempting.

"Alright, alright…" he said, picking Sam out of the crib and rocking him awkwardly from side-to-side. He had watched Mary do this many a time before the fire, and it had always soothed his brother's tears.

After two minutes, Sam's crying was as loud and relentless as when he had first started.

"God, quiet it down, would you?" Dean said through his brother's wails. "You want me to say the words? I will, you know. Don't think I'm bluffing."

_The two demons gasped; their black eyes widening as they whined excitedly through rotted teeth and blackened tongues._

Dean stared down at his brother, and spoke quietly.

"I wish… I wish…"

_The second demon squealed, clapping its hands together and cackling manically. The first demon shook it harshly by the shoulders, and dug its dirtied fingernails into the second's moulded skin._

"_Shut up, shut up! He's going to say the words… listen, my love."_

"I wish…" said Dean a third time, and Sam struggled in his arms, desperate for release; crying so wildly that his face was stained with tears, snot and spit. Dean was repulsed.

"Oh, God, I can't stand it!

Demon King!" Dean said, holding Sam high above him, as if in sacrifice. "I demand my freedom! Wherever you may be, take this fucking child to your world, and keep him there forever!"

_The two demons looked at each other._

"_What?!" they said in unison._

"_The bloody 'ell was that?" screeched the first demon. "Did that stupid whore not tell him the story right or summin'?" _

Sam bashed his little fists against Dean's, and he sighed in exasperation, lowering his baby brother from the sky.

"I wish I did know how to make the Demon's take you away…" sighed Dean. "You're such a pain in my ass."

_The second demon screamed in frustration._

"'_I wish the Demon's would come and take you away!'" _

_It looked at it's elder in bewilderment._

"_The prophecy never told us the Righteous Prince was a bleedin' half-wit!"_

"_Shh, my love," came the first demon's reply, stroking the second's rotted face with an odd sense of gentleness. "Give him time."_

Dean stared down at his brother's wailing form as he placed him back in the crib. He knew that he should feel something, but he didn't.

As he left Sam in the cot and walked out of the room, he stopped at the light switch, and turned around.

"I thought I loved you, but now I know that you're the reason why Mom is dead, and why John hates me. This is _your_ fault."

He turned off the light so his brother was left to weep in total blackness, save for the random sparks of lightening that illuminated the room.

"You wanna' know what happens at the end of _my_ story?" asked Dean in the darkness. "I wish the demons would come and take you away, and they do."

With that, Dean stormed out of the room—only to be met with silence.

Sam had stopped crying.


	5. 3 - The End of the Beginning

The King's Labyrinth

_Chapter 3_

The End of the Beginning

Dean stopped in his tracks. His body became stiff and rigid, and he could not take one more step. He recognised this feeling. He'd had it six months ago when his house was on fire.

Something was not right.

"Sam?" Dean called, turning slowly. The thunder was still loud, but all else was still.

"Sammy?"

Dean stepped into his brother's room, and attempted to turn on the light. Nothing. Dean tried to turn it on several more times but the power must have been cut off by the storm.

"Sammy?" Dean said again. "Are you all right?"

He listened out for a sound. "Why aren't you crying?"

He looked over at the cot. Sam couldn't have fallen asleep so quickly, could he? Not with the storm so loud and him being so worked up. Dean swallowed, and he found that his throat was tight. As he walked slowly towards his brother's bed, he found himself dreading as to what he might find when he reached it.

He found the bedding crumpled and unruly. Putting a hand to it, he swallowed once more as he prepared to unfold the whitened cloth. The thunder was deafening, and Dean's heart was pumping in his ears. Gritting his teeth, he pulled back the covers only to find—

Absolutely nothing.

The cot was empty. Sam was gone.

"_Sammy!_"

Dean immediately turned around and surveyed the nursery, desperately hoping that his brother had just climbed out of the cot and had wandered to the other side of the room, although he knew this was a fool's dream. Sammy was long gone; he could feel it in his gut.

Something caught his attention—a rattling at the window. As he turned to look, he thought he heard a stifled cackle erupt from behind him. He whirled his body around, and he swore that he could see two shadows disappearing behind the door. Before he had the chance to chase them, he heard from behind him the nursery window blasting open, and the ferocity of the storm showering him with rainwater.

A white snowy owl with startlingly blue eyes appeared from the outside and soared in; it's wings momentarily flustering Dean, almost making him lose balance.

That owl…

And then, the creature was no longer an owl. It was a man.

He stood in front of the window, his hands behind his back. He was taller than Dean, though not by much, and in stature he was rather slender and refined, although no one could deny the authority he upheld. His face was young, but his eyes—bright blue and dazzling—had an air of wisdom to them, alluding the sense that he had seen and done things that many others could never even dream of. His hair was the colour of a raven's feather, the same shade of black that he wore over his shoulders in a long, flowing coat. His shirt, trousers and boots were black also, as if he had somehow been swept up into the night sky and his clothes had been dyed by the stars. His lips were pink and full, and were smiling at Dean in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

Dean needed no introduction—he knew who this man was.

"I know you," was all he said. He sounded a lot braver than he felt, and he was thankful for it.

The blue-eyed man smiled again.

"Yes," he said simply. "I've been watching you for many years."

His voice was deep, but soft—comforting, in a bizarre way, and yet eerily terrifying at the same time.

"So," said Dean, clearing his throat, subconsciously trying to sound older than his seventeen years. Dean often felt like a man, but the person stood in front of him already made him feel like a child.

"The stories were all true, then," uttered Dean, almost more to himself. "But how—?"

The blue-eyed man held out a hand, and Dean immediately fell quiet.

"It all came down to this day, Dean."

He did not know how to answer that. This was all… so fucked up, there was no other way he could describe it. All of those stories his mother used to tell him when he was a child—they weren't stories—they were real!

"Please," whispered Dean. "Please, I want my brother back."

"But you said the words," the blue-eyed man said, matter-of-factly. "There's no going back."

"But I didn't mean it!" dejected Dean.

"Oh, you didn't?" the blue-eyed man smirked. "Somehow I find that very hard to believe."

Dean sighed. He didn't have it in him to argue.

"Please," he said again. "Where is he?"

The man look annoyed for a moment. "Don't play dumb, Dean, you know very well where he is."

The blue-eyed man was right. Dean had heard the stories. He knew where his brother was being kept.

"Please give him back to me. Please."

The man widened his eyes, in either surprise or frustration, Dean didn't know. His blue irises illuminated in the darkened room, only getting brighter when another flash of lightening erupted from the sky.

"But why? I've finally given you what you want, Dean—your freedom! You can leave this town, escape your father forever!"

The man took a step closer to Dean, and the boy flinched. The blue-eyed man smiled kindly, and spoke in a whisper. "You're free, Dean."

Maybe the man saw it that way, but Dean shook his head.

"I can't go. Not now."

The man sighed, although he seemed sad more than anything else.

"Forget about the baby, Dean."

Dean shook his head again, slower.

"I can't."

The blue-eyed man opened his mouth as if to say something, but changed his mind. He looked as if he were about to turn around, but stopped. Instead, he held out his hand.

"I've brought you a gift."

And with that, a glass ball appeared, resting perfectly in his palm. The blue-eyed man looked down at it fondly.

"What is it?" Dean asked. He was looking at it wearily. Although it was beautiful, he did not trust anything this man were to offer him.

"It's a crystal," he said, and he looked at it again with the same fondness as before. "If you look into it, it will show you your dreams."

He held out his hand farther.

"If you allow it, I can give you everything you've ever wanted."

Dean looked at the crystal. It was beautiful, and pure—but it was not enough.

"I can't accept." Dean said, tearing his eyes away from the crystal ball. "My dreams mean nothing if I can't have Sam back."

The blue-eyed man swung his hand back and the crystal disappeared. He looked angry, but he spoke slowly… with control.

"You've changed your tune. Sam's the reason your mother is dead, is he not?"

Dean looked up at the man, ashamed. The man spoke again.

"He has done _nothing _for you, except take away everything you've ever loved. He has got what he deserves."

Dean shook his head. "I understand what you're trying to do for me, but please, he's just a kid."

The man scowled, and again opened his mouth as if to say something, and closing it as he changed his mind. He turned away from Dean slowly, and stood with his back to him. For one horrible moment, Dean thought the man was leaving—rejecting Dean's last plea for his brother's return.

Instead, the man asked Dean a question, his voice deep and as soft as velvet. It reminded Dean of Mary's; the soothing tone of it sending ripples down his spine. It was rather ironic, feeling safe and comforted by a man who had just kidnapped his baby brother.

"Do you know who I am?"

Dean frowned slightly.

"You're the Demon King."

With that, the Demon King turned around quickly, and Dean's heartbeat quickened.

"In the first War I was known as Castiel."

"The first War?" Dean asked, but Castiel waved a hand dismissively, as if there were more important things to discuss.

"If you are so sure of who I am, Dean," said Castiel, "then why do you defy me?"

"I'm not," said Dean defensively. "I just—"

But before Dean could finish, he felt the force of four arms around him, subduing his struggling form. The creatures giggled in his ears, and he sensed the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh.

Castiel looked at Dean. He had no warmth in his eyes.

"Do you see those creatures, Dean? They are my slaves. They will do anything I ask of them."

Castiel looked away, and peered out of the window, his hands grasped behind his back.

"You have no idea the power I possess. You cannot even comprehend it.

I can suck the soul right out of your body without a second's thought. I can create storms that decimate entire cities. I can make lovers rip each other's throats out for my own amusement. I can—," Castiel sighed, and looked at the floor.

"I can do many things, Dean," he said, shaking his head slowly, as if the power he welded was a burden to him. "But I am just. I am fair."

He turned around. "Crowley?"

Dean looked to his right. A slightly chubby man walked cheerfully through the nursery door, his black eyes glinting as he smiled warmly at the King.

"Yes, sire?"

Castiel looked over at Dean, who was staring at Crowley's bright black irises.

"Dean, this is Crowley, my second-in-command, if you will."

Crowley smiled at Dean.

"Pleasure to meet you, darling," he said, holding out a hand. "Dare I say, it's an honour to be meeting you in the flesh, at last."

Dean stared.

From behind Crowley, Castiel sighed theatrically, and glared at the two demons that were holding down Dean.

"Demons!" he said, "our guest can't shake Crowley's hand if he has his own barred behind his back, can he?"

The two demons giggled, and immediately let go of Dean.

"Sorry, my love," the first demon said, and chewed absently at it's fingernails.

Castiel did not bother hiding the look of disgust on his face, although he ignored the two creatures to address the black-eyed man.

"May I ask you a question, Crowley?"

"Anything you want, my Lord!" said Crowley, placing a hand on his heart, although Dean doubted it had a beat.

"Am I a fair King?"

Crowley feigned surprise. "Only the fairest of them all!"

The two demons behind Dean giggled eagerly.

"I only ask because our friend here is so distrusting of me."

Crowley gasped in mock horror, "but you're the most trustworthy King I've ever met!"

The two demons behind Dean laughed again. They were making a mockery out of him, out of his pain. At that point, he did not care that he was standing in a room with three demons and a King that could kill him without lifting a finger—Dean was pissed off.

"Listen, _Castiel,_" he said, and the two demons immediately grew quiet. "I'm getting tired of your bullshit! Now, you either give me back my brother, or you better kill me right now, 'cause I swear to God I'll—"

"You'll do what?" asked Castiel. He was smiling.

"I'll…" Dean's voice trailed away.

Castiel smiled again; he was enjoying himself. "Listen, Dean, if you'd just let me finish, I was about to address how we could solve our little predicament, in a fair, completely unbiased way."

Dean glowered. "Oh yeah, and how would that play out?"

With a flick of Castiel's hand, a roll of parchment appeared, tied closed with a black ribbon—the same shade of the demons' eyes.

"I am a fair King," started Castiel, and Dean rolled his eyes. Castiel ignored him. "And I like to solve problems by making deals—deals that both parties can agree on."

"Deals?" asked Dean, a little cautiously.

"Correct," nodded Castiel. "Crowley, if you'd do the honours."

With that, Castiel handed the roll of parchment to Crowley, who took it in his hands readily. He cleared his throat.

"_I, Castiel, King of Demons, and ruler of the Land of Lost Souls, hereby allow Dean Winchester, son of Mary, to travel through my Labyrinth on his quest to collect his brother, Samuel Winchester, who is currently residing in the King's castle._"

Crowley stopped reciting for a moment to clear his throat once more.

"_If Dean Winchester is unable to reach his brother within three mortal days; Samuel will be turned into a demon, and Dean will be trapped in my Labyrinth as a Lost Soul forever._

_Does Dean, son of Mary, accept this deal?"_

With this, all eyes were on Dean. The two rotted demons giggled and whispered to each other behind him, and Crowley stared at him expectedly. Dean remained silent for several moments.

"Er, Dean," said Crowley. "Now you either say 'I accept the King's deal,' or 'I do not accept the King's deal.'"

Dean looked at Castiel, who was smiling kindly at him. God, he couldn't wait to wipe that smile off of that self-righteous little prick's face.

"I accept the King's deal," he said, staring down at Castiel with every ounce of loathing he could muster. Castiel's face faultered slightly—but only for a moment. Recovering just as quickly, he clasped his hands together, and nodded decidedly at Dean.

"Oh, isn't it nice the rain has stopped!" came Crowley from Dean's right, and, looking out of the window, Dean saw that the blackened night of his desolate hometown had vanished, to reveal a night unlike anything Dean had ever seen before.

Dean was staring out at Castiel's Land; the Land he had only heard in stories when he was a little boy—the Land of Lost Souls.

The sky was neither light nor dark. It was colourless, and yet it was not, in a way. It was murky, Dean decided, like a swamp.

He took a step forwards. There was no wind, or smell, or anything. It was as if Dean was looking out at a picture and nothing more.

"You won't be able to beat me," came a voice in his ear. It was Castiel. As he turned around, the nursery room, and all of it's inhabitants, save for Dean and the King, had gone. They were both standing on a small hill, right on the outskirts of Castiel's realm. In a bizarre, sickening thought, Dean's mind wandered to the hill that he had spent all those years on watching the sun go down back home.

This place was nothing like that. Not even close.

Dean glared at the blue-eyed man. What an arrogant, needy little bastard he was. How did he have it in him to be a King when he was so pathetic?

"I have to try," he said, and he meant it.

Castiel walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you see that castle?" Castiel asked, pointing past Dean's ear. Dean turned around.

Indeed, he saw the castle. It was nothing more than an ant's home, now, although it loomed high over the Labyrinth's walls. Castiel's world was a desolate one. There was no speck of sunlight in that murky sky; no sense of life anywhere, be it plant or animal, demon or no. The world was quiet here, and Dean wasn't sure whether that gave him comfort or sent a warning down his spine.

"That is my home," Castiel continued. Dean could feel his breath on his face, and it made him feel odd. "You will find your brother there, that is, if you can reach him."

Dean looked over at the Labyrinth that guarded Castiel's castle. It was impossible to make out a direct route, for there were so many twists and turns. It looked endless.

"It doesn't look that far," said Dean, hoping to sound more confident than he felt.

Castiel chuckled. "It's not the distance that should worry you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked accusingly.

Castiel only laughed once more. "You'll find out soon enough…"

Dean felt Castiel's hot breath on his neck, and he tried to ignore the tight knot that was forming in the pit of his stomach. He turned his head slowly, half expecting the King to still be there, but, along with Crowley, and Sammy's nursery, Castiel had dissapeared as well.

Dean looked out at the Labyrinth once more.

"Three days…" he whispered into the emptiness. It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to.

Picking up his feet, Dean walked promptly down the hill, trying his best not to think about the horrors that surely awaited him inside the King's Labyrinth.

* * *

_Somewhere, amidst the walls of a mighty castle, guarded by creatures with eyes as black as coal, a blue-eyed man stared into his crystal ball, and caressed the figure inside it softly—a kind, contented smile painted on his lucent face. _

_Everything was going according to plan._


	6. 4 - The Labyrinth's Door

The King's Labyrinth

_Chapter 4_

The Labyrinth's Door

It was a relatively short walk down the hill towards the Labyrinth's entrance. Dean's brown working boots treaded softly against the ground, and his clothes would occasionally latch on to the snare of haggard-looking scrubs—as if even the plants of Castiel's world were his slaves, attempting to ensnare Dean forever between their prickled thorns.

Dean didn't know what to think. He marched down the hill quickly, but his mind was lost in a haze of questions and doubts.

He had never meant for this to happen. Wishing Sammy away… it had only meant to be a joke—a cruel, vicious joke, enveloped in a fury of grief and bitterness—but a joke nonetheless. He had not once thought that his mother's stories were any less than, well, stories!

Dean wished he had asked Castiel about Mary.

Seeing the Demon King stood before him in his brother's bedroom, with his glowing eyes the colour of an ocean at dawn, and the puckish smirk etched on his face as he told Dean that he would never see his brother again, had all been too much to deal with.

Dean hadn't been thinking clearly in that bedroom. Hell, he hadn't been thinking clearly for the past six months! But now his mind was sharp, and he wanted to know why, and _how_, his mother had known all along that the Tale of the Two Brothers was real, and Sam and Dean were one day to be tangled in this parable of betrayal and war.

How could she not have told him?

If he had known, then maybe he could have stopped this. All of it.

Dean thought about the fire, or, more specifically, something his mother had said during the fire.

"_It's happening. Like he said it would."_

Had Mary known all along that a fire would burn down their home and kill her? Had somebody told her? Warned her?

Why hadn't she warned her family?

Dean shook his head and gritted his teeth. Before this day, Dean thought he had known everything there was to know about Mary Winchester, but it turned out she had been keeping secrets from her family for years. She had even been willing to die with them.

Dean now realised, with a slight twinge in his heart, that he had barely known his mother at all.

Dean contemplated the issue at hand, and had to fight back a shudder—if he didn't make it to Castiel's castle in three days, then his brother was lost forever.

This was the second time Dean had betrayed someone who loved him. The demons that had held him down in the nursery, their eyes black and their skin the reek of rancid flesh—this was the future that awaited Sammy if Dean did not get to him in time.

Failure wasn't an option. He knew that much.

Dean wondered whether he would see Castiel again any time soon.

He had not been how Dean had pictured him from Mary's stories at all. Dean had always imagined the King of Demons as a monstrous creature; an ungodly hybrid of brutality and evil, neither man nor beast, living or dead. Castiel, however, seemed nothing more than a man—with the egotistical, self-obsessed vanity of a man. The fact that he was a King at all seemed almost like fraud.

Shaking his head at the thought, Dean used his hands to move the unruly bush-strays out of his path, gritting his teeth as the sharp, thorn-like branches scraped at the exposed skin on his arms, leaving tiny white scratches.

Making his way through the last amount of shrubbery, Dean was met by a sight that both appeased and troubled him. There, a mere few metres away, was a giant wall, and in the centre of it, a door.

This was it, Dean thought, the door that guarded the entrance of the mighty King's Labyrinth.

Dean took a step towards it. The ground between the marshy hill and the mammoth wall was an unappealing brown colour, much like Dean's boots, and it was sparse apart from the odd rock and wilted bush. Dean looked to his left. The wall went on for miles and miles, and there did not seem to be an end in sight. He looked to his right, and it was very much the same. The air was completely still, and it seemed to be deserted.

Dean walked towards the door, and placed a hand on the looming ingress.

It was rough to touch. The rock, or whatever the door had been made of, appeared to have had parts eroded from time and weather, although Dean somehow doubted that the murky coloured sky and non-existent wind ever changed in this place. The texture was bumpy and irregular, and the whole door appeared to be in the process of disintegrating—as if the inhabitants of Castiel's world had been locked inside their prison for so long, they had forgotten that this door existed, and so here it stood—ignored.

Dean looked at the door more closely, and frowned. After a moment, Dean noticed that some of the bumps weren't just an outcome of smelted ruin; they were actually carvings.

Dean took a step back. Immediately, the picture became clear: faces snarled in savage expression; creatures fighting one another with claws as sharp as knives—and above them, on elevated ground, beings bent over as if in praise, their knees and foreheads touching the earth, as they bowed in servitude to the man who stood before them.

This man was Castiel. He stood straight and tall, with his arms lifted in the air. He was looking up at the sky above him, and a part of it seemed to be open, beaming light into his crystal-blue eyes.

Dean couldn't help but laugh. Although he had only met Castiel a short while ago, his self-important arrogance could be seen unquestionably clearly in the carving on this door.

"You don't half think the sun shines out of your ass, do you, Cas?"

Dean laughed quietly, hoping that the King had heard every word. Then he stopped.

He had called him Cas.

Clearing his throat gruffly, Dean composed himself and knitted his brows together in concentration. Getting to the entrance of the Labyrinth had been the easy part. Now, all he needed to do was actually get though it.

Dean scoured the door for a knob of some sort, something he could use to push or pull the door open with. He had tried urging it ajar with his shoulder a few times, but it hadn't budged. He kicked it—hard—like the time he had done to force his way into Sammy's nursery during the fire, but, again, the door stayed shut.

Perhaps Castiel was toying with him for making fun of the carving. If the King was one to hold grudges, then Dean had managed to screw himself over before he'd even had a chance to get into the damned Labyrinth! _Good going_, he thought.

"Come on," he said, rattling at the door again. "Come on, you son-of-a-bitch. Open up!"

Dean slammed his fists against the rocky texture, and groaned loudly in irritation.

"Swearing and kicking won't get you anywhere," came a sudden voice from behind him. "The door has feelings too, you know."

Dean whirled around.

There, stood in the clearing, was a woman.

She was smirking at him, and her hands were resting on her hips in such a way that implied she was mocking Dean's door-opening skills, or in this case, lack thereof.

Dean had been sure that no one had been following him down that hill, and he had only checked the clearing around the wall moments ago, and he was adamant that the place had been deserted.

Dean did not trust this girl. He did not trust this girl one bit.

"Who are you?" he asked her harshly. "Where'd you come from?"

"But I've been here all this time, Dean," said the girl haughtily. "You just haven't been paying attention."

Dean blinked.

"How do you know my name?"

The girl laughed, and rolled her eyes.

"_Everyone_ knows your name here, Dean. You're famous."

_Famous…_

"Are you human?" he asked the girl, his voice quieter, hopeful.

The girl laughed again. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the whiteness of her eyes had been replaced by a sheet of black. No, this girl was not human, not by a long shot—she was a demon.

"Does this answer your question?" the demon smiled flirtatiously at Dean, whose own green eyes were wide with shock.

"Stay away from me!" he said, arching his body against the door. "Stay back or I'll—"

"You'll do what?" the demon asked. "Kill me?"

"W-well…" started Dean.

"You couldn't," she said flatly, crossing her arms. "Even if you tried. No one can die here."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Seriously? Well then, I've got nothing to worry about, have I?"

The demon shook her head, tauntingly.

"Just because you can't die…"

The black-eyed woman turned around and began to pace slowly, still with her arms crossed against her chest.

"The things that can happen to you in there…" she said quietly, her head nodding towards the door of the Labyrinth. "There are some fates _far_ worse than death, Dean, believe me."

She stopped pacing, and looked at Dean. Her eyes had returned to their normal brown. She looked human again.

"How'd you do that?" asked Dean. "With your eyes."

"Oh…" she started. "All demons can do it. It's sort of like a light switch, see?" She then proceeded to close and open her eyes several times, changing them from black to brown, black, to brown again. As she stared nonchalantly at Dean for a couple more moments, Dean stifled a gulp. In the odd, half-light of the Land of Lost Souls, the demon girl with the brown eyes and brown hair was almost pretty.

"You said I was famous," he said, in an attempt to break the silence.

"Yeah," the girl said jeeringly. "You're a real _David Bowie_."

Dean sighed.

"You knew I was coming?"

The girl puffed out her cheeks in contemplation.

"I had an inkling," was all she said.

Dean sighed again. He was getting impatient.

"Listen, lady—"

"Meg," she interrupted.

"…Meg," Dean repeated slowly, deciding the best way to go about things was to change his approach.

"Look," he said, his voice slow and clear, as if he were talking to an invalid. "I'm _real_ busy right now, and I kind of need to get into the Labyrinth pronto. So, unless you and your friends wanna' come out and gank me, I'd really appreciate it if you could help me get inside."

Meg stared at him for several moments, her face blank. Then, she smiled brightly.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific than that, Dean."

Dean stammered, and stared at her in confusion.

"More specific?" he asked incredulously. "How the hell can I be more specific than that?"

Meg shrugged.

"You tell me."

Dean felt like bashing his head against the Labyrinth's door—or hers. At this rate, three days would pass before he could even enter the goddamned thing.

"Lady…" he said, his hands rubbing at his eyes slowly, every part of him attempting to resist the urge of either hurting himself or the demon girl stood before him.

"I have had a _really_ shitty day, but if you could tell me how to open that door—" Dean pointed behind him. "I would be extremely grateful."

Meg pointed in the same direction Dean had just done.

"You wanna' go through _that_ door?" she asked interestedly.

"Yes," said Dean, as politely as he could. Meg's face suddenly lit up.

"Well, why didn't you say so, silly?"

Meg brushed past him so she was standing directly in front of the mighty structure. She was beaming.

"I haven't had a chance to do this for the longest time!"

With that, she brought her face close to the rock, and whispered something. She spoke so quietly that Dean could not hear what she was saying. Her voice was so gentle, though; sensuous. As if she was talking to a lover.

Slowly, the mighty door that guarded the entrance of Castiel's Labyrinth began to open. It happened slowly, and the door scraped across the earth in a loud, monotonous groan. Dust and sand particles seeped through the air in an animated dance of freedom and ecstasy, as if they were finally waking up after a century of sleep.

Indeed, this door had not been opened for a very long time.

It only made Dean wonder why Meg was on the other side of it.

* * *

Meg stood to the side to allow Dean to enter. As he did, he was met with nothing more than a wall very much like the one guarding the outside. Dean looked to his left, and saw an endless path that merely ended in fog a hundred miles away. Then, he looked to his right, and saw exactly the same thing.

Somehow, Dean wasn't surprised. King Castiel was a piece of crap, and if Dean had thought that Castiel was going to make things easy for him just because he'd managed to get through one freakin' door, then he had another thing coming.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" came a voice from behind him.

"'Beautiful' wouldn't exactly be the word I'd go for…" said Dean, scratching his head, and looking again from left to right in the hopes that he had somehow missed something.

He turned around.

"You comin' in or not?" he asked the demon, but Meg shook her head.

"Oh, no, I can't go in there," she said, looking a little flustered. "I have to stay out here."

"What use are you out there if Castiel's kingdom's _inside_ the Labyrinth?"

Meg only shook her head again.

"I have to stay by this door," she said. "It's my job, you see? Very important, like."

Dean smirked.

"What use are you guarding a door that no one goes in or out of?"

This angered the demon, and she crossed her arms hotly, and turned around.

"_You_ came through, didn't you?"

She huffed, and then muttered to herself. "Couldn't even open the fucking thing…"

Dean couldn't help but feel a little bad, even despite his situation and the fact that he was talking to a demon.

"Sorry, lady," he said. And he meant it. Ignoring Meg's sarcasm and discourteous attitude, she _had_ helped him open the door and start his quest to save Sam. Although, he still needed one more thing from her.

"Hey, um, Meg," he asked cautiously, remembering to call her by her name, and trying his hardest to sound polite. "You wouldn't happen to know which way leads to the castle, would ya'?"

Meg snapped her head around, seething. Dean's attempt at chivalry had obviously failed. God, his wooing abilities were _really_ slacking.

"How the fuck should I know?" she barked. "All I do, day in and day out, is stand outside this fucking Labyrinth with nothing but a few rocks and an easily offended door for company!"

The Labyrinth's door made a loud, grating noise, and closed by a few inches. Meg looked rueful.

"Listen, Dean, go whichever direction you want; you're screwed either way."

Dean smiled sarcastically. "Gee, thanks," he said.

"Whatever…" mumbled Meg, and began to turn around. Dean held out a hand.

"Wait," he said. She stopped.

"What?"

"Are you sure you don't wanna' come inside?"

Meg rolled her eyes.

"I _can't_, shit-for-brains, I already told you! I'm the door guard—my job is to stay here."

"Well, then quit," said Dean. Meg laughed harshly.

"I can't quit. This isn't that type of job."

Dean frowned. "What kind of job is it, then?"

Meg sighed.

"You know in your world when instead of going to prison, your criminals are forced to pick up used condoms and beer cans from the side of the road?" Dean nodded. "Well," Meg said sullenly. "This is _that_ kind of job—minus the orange jumpsuit."

Dean laughed, quite accidentally. Meg glared at him.

"What did you do to get stuck on door duty?" he asked. Meg crossed her arms.

"I don't wanna' talk about it."

Dean shrugged. He'd wasted enough time talking with Meg. Now that he was actually inside the Labyrinth, he needed to go save Sammy before his three days were up.

"Well," Dean said, beginning to walk down the path to his right. "Thanks for the help, I guess."

After a few more steps, Meg said his name. Dean stopped.

The girl fingered at her black coat uneasily, and she looked down at the floor for a moment, then looked back at him. Her brown eyes glittered in the half-light.

"Don't think this journey will be easy, Dean Winchester," she said, speaking with tenacity. "There are many creatures in this Labyrinth who do not want you to reach your brother, and they will do _anything_ to stop you." Her voice quickened, and the door of the Labyrinth made an uneasy sound, and began to close.

"Good luck, son of Mary," said Meg, who was now disappearing behind the mighty door. "Because you're gonna need it."

As the door finally slammed shut, and the sand particles settled onto the ground, Dean swallowed, and found that his throat was dry. He looked in the direction that he was walking down, and he saw nothing but an endless path, going on and on down a thousand miles of nothingness.

Dean thought about what Meg had just told him, about the creatures that would do absolutely everything in their power to stop Dean from reaching Sammy.

Being afraid had no purpose here, he realised. He had to be strong. He had to fight every son-of-a-bitch who crossed his path. He had to reach Sam. He _had_ to.

Walking down the endless pathway, Dean had only one thing on his mind:

_Save Sammy. _


End file.
